


Left-handed

by asterCrash



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Drabble, F/F, Rose pov, alternate universe where rose works a boring office job and hates everything about her existence, especially her fucked up girlfriend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-07
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-04-25 06:53:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4950787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asterCrash/pseuds/asterCrash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rose feeling reflective the morning after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Left-handed

She ruins you in all your favourite ways.

You don’t want anything to be good for anyone ever again. You want the world to be nothing but a whirlwind of chaos with you and her dancing at the centre of it. You would burn down cities if you could get out of bed. Her arm is draped over your chest like she owns you and also like she just fucking left it there without thinking. She’s so thoughtless you’d be surprised if an electroencephalogram would show anything other than a flatline, or maybe a conga line, whatever kind of line it wouldn’t be anything you’d expect a sentient creature’s brain to spew out. Her brain of course does nothing but vomit. Endless tirades and rants, no end, no beginning, no logical chain of points. Just thirty seconds of barely coherent diatribe against no one in particular and everyone at once, a pause for breath, “and another thing”, and the cycle of violent verbal diarrhea starts again. She doesn’t have a plan, she can’t think any further ahead than the end of the next cigarette and you’re almost sure she’s killed a man. You’re probably more sure of that than she is. She’s everything you ever thought you could hate in a person and you’re more in love with her than you knew was possible. You’re not sure if you can bear the thought of life without her any more than you can bear the thought of another second listening to her snore. 

She’s still got her fucking arm on your chest. That’s literal by the way, she only fucks you left-handed, as if she’s scared to get cooties on the hand she signs her name with. You throw her off and she hits the ground with a wet thud of flesh and bone. You try to savour it but it’s always over too soon. There’s a delay while she contemplates going back to sleep on the motel room floor before her hand gropes the nightstand in search of her smokes. You snatch the pack out of her reach and make sure you get yours first, throwing it back down to her. You hope it hits  
her in the face but even sleep deprived and probably concussed she’s a damn good catch.

Ash trickles down onto the sheets and you know you’re making problems for someone who has it infinitely worse off than you. You rub it in a little to make sure the stains will hold, so the problem becomes the problem of someone other than the cleaning lady. Perfectly good sheets will wind up in the garbage tonight and you can only hope an enterprising young person will remember which bin to rifle through for the clean sheets with the cigarette ash stain. You hope you give a shitty middle manager an ulcer on the way through. Maybe they take it out on their spouse, maybe they beat their kid, you’re contributing to the cycle of violence in the only way you know that doesn’t involve setting a family home on fire.

She gets up off the ground with only a burn mark on her thigh and the stink of her breath to indicate she’d ever been smoking. She’s trying to quit trying to quit and she’s doing a marvellous job of it. You can’t keep your eyes off her so you do your best to look judgemental, appraising the sag of her tits, the curve of an ass that you could have set your watch to ten years ago. She’s not done living yet but that carcass of hers has given up pretending she’s going to live forever. The grace though, the grace didn’t go anywhere. Springs creak as she gets back on the bed next to you, legs trailing out in front of her, directionless for all that they point straight ahead. You flick your butt off onto some distant corner of the carpet and fall sideways onto her, pulling the bed sheets tight around you as you go.

You thought the key to your self destruction was always going to be in your own head, fucking Palahniuk rip-off of a woman that you are, but you breathe in the scent of her, smelling like five kinds of steamrolled shit, and you know you’ve found the perfect place to tattoo your headstone. Here lies a fucking moron, died of a malfunctioning heart. She rolls her fingers lazily through your hair, not a care in the world that she’s tangling it in gordian knots you’ll have to somehow unravel through a hangover. She’d offer to burn your office building down if you complained about having to be presentable for Monday and one of these days you’re probably going to take her up on that. Only if she promises to fuck you in the ashes, of course. 

Left-handed, like always.

**Author's Note:**

> being fair, this was probably never going anywhere, felt like posting it anyway

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Sinister](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7587184) by [Farla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Farla/pseuds/Farla)




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